I was told to write down my identity
a neat sheet of paper
that would briefly explain me
I pondered a while
attempting to identify
a few key moments of my history
Do I tell of the immigrant?
or the miracle child?
do I speak of depression
and how I so rarely smiled?
Should I tell you about the language
I so rarely spoke
for fear of fitting a stereotype:
the terrorist trope.
Shall I explain hypomania?
and how I couldn't sleep?
and how the monsters I dreamt of
into my conscious peripheral would creep?
How I couldn't seek help
until I was almost twenty-one
because in my parents' culture
mental illness doesn't exist.
My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right?
Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right?
nine months later I was born.

I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor."
I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university.
With our new, safe nationality
at forty days old
I was taken to the UAE
I was raised on Western books
and Western TV
raised with ideas that just didn't fit
in a muslim family
(at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE)
I haven't scratched the surface of who I am
and depending on the pieces I tell
I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be
what I choose to write is how you will read me.